Chapter 30: I'll Give You Three Hours

Nan Xiao’s voice was calm—no trace of anger, no hint of hurt. She thought the matter had been settled.

But she didn’t expect Xie Chengyu to still be cold-eyed, his tone clipped as he spoke: “Rewrite that intimate scene. Don’t let Ruoxin play it too exposed.”

Nan Xiao’s chest tightened. She knew the words were off, but she couldn’t help asking anyway: “Why? You don’t like seeing her close to another man?”

“Mm.”
He nodded, flat and unbothered.

Her lips turned pale. Her gaze dimmed.

She blamed herself for asking. Hadn’t she already known this?

“I’ll consider it,” she said, turning away as if adjusting scripts on the table—anything to hide the ache in her chest.

Xie Chengyu glanced at her back, then lowered his eyes before leaving the dressing room.

The next morning, Xu Ruoxin had recovered after a night’s rest. With Xie Chengyu by her side, she arrived on set with a healthy flush in her cheeks, smiling warmly as she thanked everyone who’d helped her yesterday.

Now came the reshoot of yesterday’s scene. Last night, Zhou Ruicheng had received a direct order from Xie Chengyu: rewrite the script for Ruoxin. But when he passed the message to Nan Xiao, she never replied. Calls went unanswered. Zhou was frantic.

“Director Zhou, is the new script ready yet?”
Ruoxin finally finished her rounds, walking over with a bright smile.

Zhou wiped sweat from his brow, forcing a grin. “Almost done. Just give me a sec—I’ll bring it to you soon…”

He shot off another quick text to Nan Xiao: *Baby, where the hell are you?? Come back NOW!!! Don’t forget the script change!!!*

As he tapped his phone, Xie Chengyu caught the motion.

For some reason, he felt certain Zhou was messaging Nan Xiao. Since she hadn’t shown up yet, he glanced toward the door.

That’s when it opened.

Nan Xiao walked in, leading a woman who looked ordinary at first glance—but with a figure that turned heads. Everyone froze, staring.

Nan Xiao remained expressionless. She brought the woman to Zhou’s side and said:
“Director Zhou, I found a stand-in for Ruoxin. She can shoot all the bed scenes and kissing shots going forward.”

“Zhouzhou, turn around and show Director Zhou.”

The girl—Zhouzhou—turned. The crowd gasped softly.

It was uncanny.
Just from the back, she looked exactly like Ruoxin.

Zhou studied her, uneasy. He didn’t want to change the scene—after all, only directors and writers truly understood the story’s emotional rhythm. He knew altering the scene would dull its impact.

But Xie Chengyu was their investor—the golden goose. Their boss’s demands had to be met.

Now, Nan Xiao had brought in a stand-in. No need to rewrite the script. No need to compromise. It was a perfect solution. Zhou was thrilled.

But Ruoxin stepped forward, her face tight with irritation.
“This is my stand-in? Miss Nan, I refuse.”

It wasn’t uncommon to use stand-ins during filming. But everyone knew—great actors didn’t need them. Only those who couldn’t handle the scenes used stand-ins.

So Nan Xiao bringing one now felt like an insult.

“Director Zhou,” Ruoxin said firmly, “I’ll shoot this scene myself. I won’t use a stand-in.”

Nan Xiao’s voice was just as firm: “Miss Ruoxin, this scene can’t be changed. If you shoot it yourself, you must follow the original script. Otherwise, we’ll use the stand-in.”

She’d spent the past day and night hunting for this woman—no food, no sleep. Now exhausted, her eyes burned with fierce focus. For a moment, the whole crew fell silent.

“Chengyu…”
Ruoxin suddenly softened her voice, looking at Xie Chengyu with wounded eyes. “I don’t want a stand-in. No great actor uses one. This… this is humiliating.”

Nan Xiao clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Xie Chengyu stepped forward, voice cool. “Didn’t we agree to rewrite the scene?”

The words were light, but Nan Xiao heard the chill beneath them. Was she imagining it?

She looked into his eyes—those sharp, beautiful eyes now filled with icy detachment. No, it wasn’t imagination.

“I only said I’d *consider* it,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I never said I’d *change* it. That’s point one.”

“Point two: this scene *can’t* be changed. Rewriting it weakens the emotional arc between the leads.”

“This bed scene is a pivotal turning point in their relationship. If we ruin it, all the buildup before it goes to waste.”

Her words sounded extreme—surely the earlier setup wouldn’t collapse from a small edit. But to someone like Nan Xiao, a meticulous writer who believed every detail mattered, perfection wasn’t optional. One concession after another, and the entire script would end up patchy, broken. She couldn’t bear it. Neither could the audience.

She laid it all out. Then added quietly: “Of course, if Miss Ruoxin doesn’t want to shoot this scene, we understand. That’s why I found a stand-in.”

“She looks nearly identical from behind. We’ll only film side angles and backs. With editing, no one will notice. It’s the best of both worlds.”

But Ruoxin thought bitterly: *Still, the final credits will list her name.*

She looked at Xie Chengyu again. “I really can’t accept a stand-in. No serious performer uses one. Let me shoot it myself.”

She was yielding—softening her tone, letting a quiet sadness slip through. Anyone would feel sorry for her.

Xie Chengyu didn’t flinch. His voice grew colder. “No stand-in. You shoot it. And you change the script.”

“But the script really—”

“You can’t do it? Then let someone else do it.”

He cut her off, voice flat.

Nan Xiao slowly widened her eyes. She stared at him, disbelief flooding her.

“What did you say?”

If she refused to change it, he’d have someone else rewrite it?

To people like them, words carried weight beyond surface meaning. So Xie Chengyu meant—replace the writer.

Her fists clenched. Anger, betrayal, sorrow—all surged through her, filling her chest until her body trembled.

“I won’t let anyone else rewrite the script,” she said, voice low but unwavering.

Changing the script wasn’t just a creative choice—it was her boundary. Her job. Her identity.

Xie Chengyu glanced at her, then checked his watch.
“If you want to keep being the screenwriter on this project, you’ll change it.”

He paused.
“You have three hours.”